Safe-T-Man: My Servant, My Master, My Lover

by Nina Blake




It started innocently enough—these things usually do. There I was, hurtling back to L.A. at 400+ m.p.h., casually biting open a bag of honey-roasted peanuts, when he appeared before me on the pages of the in-flight catalogue nestled on my lap: "Safe-T-Man, Your Personal Bodyguard," read the copy above a photo of an aloof, tough-looking, "life-size simulated male" in mirrored sunglasses and brown leather jacket.

"Ha, what a joke! " I chuckled arrogantly. As if a modern woman would have any use for this so-called "unique security product," which promised to act as a "visual deterrent" by providing onlookers with the "impression you have the protection of a male guardian."





The joke proved to be on me. If only I had turned the page and forgotten about him. But my in-flight boredom had gotten the best of me. I read on. Right into the vortex of a tumultuous obsession, a Safe-T-Man addiction that I dare say has affected me in ways I have yet to even imagine ...

Considering I've spent most of my life avoiding even the mention of the word guardian let alone protection in mixed company, I chalked up my interest in the ad to harmless amusement, and so I confidently perused the explication of Safe-T-Man's rather contradictory features. He gave the "appearance of being a 180-pound, 6-foot tall man," yet he actually weighed only 10 pounds and stood 3 feet high. Not unlike a lot of actors I knew. He was constructed of soft-fabric polyfiber, yet he had a movable latex head and hands, both of which were "incredibly real." Why were his movable hands and head so incredible? Did this mean that his fingers would move too? I pondered, snickering to myself.





Just supposing, I mean hypothetically, if I were to get him, I ventured, what type would I choose? The ad listed three versions. Since I had already worked out my issues with older men last year, the "light-skinned/gray-haired man" was definitely out. That left the choice of a "light-skinned/blond man" or a "dark-skinned/dark-haired man" ...

Who was I kidding? I mentally chose the dark man. Easy enough. But would I get the "optional button-on legs?" Now that was something to think about. I wouldn't want to intentionally disable him, but why let him walk away right when I needed him most?





I read further and realized he wouldn't even need to walk since he came with a zippered tote into which he "folds compactly for discreet portability." How convenient! OK, forget the legs, I'd take the tote. Done deal. Realizing that his comings and goings would be under my control, I felt a surge of power-driven lust.

If only I had closed the catalogue right then, I would never have come upon the point of no return: "Dress Him, according to your own personal style (clothing not included)." Point taken: Shop for him!! Which spontaneously triggered the first of my Safe-T-Man fantasies, fantasies that have invaded every onanistic and oneiric moment of my life since ...





Midday, Barney's. I sashay in with Safe-T in tow, gliding past the sales staff. Yeah I know they're checking out my man. My man!! I nod his movable latex head approvingly at everything I pick out, I place the garments in his movable latex hands. We slip into the dressing room together. He doesn't utter a word as I dress and undress him in everything from Gaultier to Gucci. Finally I wrap him in a orange faux-fur Versace pea coat and we have hot safe sex against the floor-length mirror. We emerge from the dressing room smiling at the sales staff and I buy everything I want, yes that's right, everything I want.

When I came to I was gripping the airfone tightly in my sweaty hand. No, not that I was really going to buy him, never. There were just a few pertinent questions I needed to ask the catalogue salesperson. Like whether or not he had any more movable latex parts. And if he came with a 30-day money-back satisfaction guarantee.





When the salesperson answered, I hastily spewed out his number, #4852178. Somehow, I had already memorized it. Her just as hasty response sent a shock wave through my body that left me numb.

"Oh, that item has been discontinued."

"How can that be? I'm looking at him right now in the catalog. Is he on back order? When will he be in stock?"

"I'm sorry. He's no longer available," she insisted.

"You're lying! Look, I know he's there. Okay, tell him I'll get him the goddamn legs."

Silence.

"Okay fine, tell him I'll forget the faux fur, we'll work around it."

Silence.





"Please I have to have him. I need him. I want him. I'm falling in love and ..." She clicked off. I was reduced to hysterical ranting and uncontrollable sobbing into a dead airfone. It wasn't pretty. These things rarely are.

I tried calling many times after that and was always handed the same shoddy line. Months later, I've come to accept the fact that I'll never know why Safe-T-Man didn't want me to buy him. The only thing for sure is that I'll never find another man like him: pliable yet firm, dependable yet aloof, attentive yet undemanding, willing to indulge me sexually, and of course, so safe. The truth is Safe-T has ruined me. And I'm just going to have to learn to live with it somehow.   </end>

Nina Blake lives in LA where she has recently been served a restraining order from the Warner Brothers store for lewd public conduct involving a Bugs Bunny and a Michael Jordan figurine.

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